“Molly,” he says quietly, his voice rough with emotion he’s trying to swallow. “Please just say something to let me know you’re okay.”
His words undo me. I’m not okay. I’m terrified and broken, and I’ll probably relive these last few hours of my life for years to come.
“I’m not,” I say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds. “I’m not okay, Samuil.”
My voice breaks on his name, and the tears start fresh. He tries to touch me, to hold me, but I can’t let him. I saw what those hands can do.
“You have blood on your hands,” I tell him through sobs.
He looks pained by my words. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops and just nods.
“I’m sorry, Molly,” he finally manages. “I’m so sorry you were hurt because of me. That I?—”
“No,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “Your hands.”
I point at them because it’s all I can manage. He looks down and sees the blood spatter on his hands. He stares at them as if he never knew they existed before this moment.
“Right,” he says, almost to himself. “I’m going to take care of this. Will you be okay for a few minutes?”
I nod. I think I need to be by myself for a while anyway. I wish I were back at my apartment, back in my safe space. Even though this place has become like a second home, it just reminds me of everything Samuil is, and of our conversation just last night, when he told me he couldn’t give up his Bratva for us.
Once he’s gone, I get up stiffly and walk slowly to my own bathroom. I want to scrub my skin until there’s no trace of this awful night. I look down at my own hands and see the bruises starting to form on my wrists from where the cuffs were tightened around them. I don’t dare touch them.
I turn on the shower and slowly undress, not daring to look at myself in the mirror. I’ll have to burn these clothes. At the very least, I’ll throw them away. I never want a reminder of this for as long as I live.
I focus on my breathing, finally managing to stop crying and draw a good, deep breath. I will get through this. I have to get through this. My baby needs me to be strong right now.
I step into the hot spray of the shower, wincing as the water stings my raw skin. I power through it, washing my hair and scrubbing my skin until the water turns cold. When I can’t stand the temperature any longer, I force myself out and wrap myself in a big, fluffy towel.
Samuil is sitting on my bed when I emerge from the bathroom. He looks freshly showered too, his head hanging. When he hears me, he looks up with so much tenderness and sadness in his eyes that it nearly steals my breath.
“I’m worried about you.”
I nod and go to sit next to him on the mattress, clutching the towel to my chest. He reaches out and touches my cheek with the backs of his fingers. It’s such a soft gesture that it feels foreign after everything I’ve been through. I lean into it without meaning to. My body reacts before my mind can object. His thumb brushes along my jaw as if he’s memorizing the shape of me, reminding himself I’m real. His throat works when he swallows.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he breathes.
Something inside me breaks at his words, but I don’t know how to reconcile anything that’s happened. He came to rescue me. He put a bullet through a man’s face for me. He risked everything to save me.
He chose his brotherhood over our family. He got Anya’s mom killed. He shot a man in the face. What I saw tonight only confirms what I already knew. He’s capable of unspeakable violence, of killing without hesitation. I saw the look in his eyes when he pulled the trigger. I heard the sound.
He’s also the man who called our child “Beloved.” None of it makes sense when I put it together like that.
My breath quivers.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, grounding me. “Say something,” he murmurs.
I want to feel anything but the terror brewing inside me. I’m shaking and cold and overwhelmed, and I need to reclaim something inside myself. So I lean forward and kiss him. It’s hot and desperate and full of all the words I can’t begin to say.
He inhales sharply against my mouth, surprised, but when my fingers slip into his hair and anchor him to me, he gives in without hesitation. He kisses me back like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His palm slides to my waist and pulls me closer. The world tilts, not from fear this time, but from something fierce and aching and painfully human unfurling inside my chest.
I climb into his lap, straddling him, my thighs trembling as I settle over him. My towel comes undone, leaving me naked against him. His breath stutters against my lips.
“Molly,” he whispers, “you just went through hell. You should rest. You should let me take care of you.”
“I am taking care of myself,” I say, my voice shaking. “Please. Let me.”
My words cause something to shift in him. His hands stay exactly where they are, one at my hip, the other at the back of my thigh, but he waits for me to make the first move. He lets me choose.
